There's been a growing unrest in the country over the past few weeks. The internet has been awash with rumours, the inane chirping of the Twitter ranks rising slowly to a roar. The savvier among us have begun stockpiling provisions – flour, butter, fondant icing – in anticipation of a national shortage. I've even heard talk of holidays being rescheduled.

By Wednesday evening, the tension had reached breaking point: as dusk fell, parents ushered their children indoors; families clustered nervously around the television and a hush settled over the streets. And with the jaunty ring of a familiar theme tune, the spell was broken. Bake Off is back – and what a return it was.

If anyone had worried whether the show's move from BBC2 to the glitzier BBC1 would ruin its charm, those fears were quickly laid to rest. No divas or disco balls graced the tent, and as the programme trundled slowly into motion through a shot of the hosts Mel Giedroyc and Sue Perkins sprawled across a pristine country lawn, it was clear that little had changed. It was the same hulking tent – though this time uprooted from its old home in Somerset and parked in the middle of Welford Park, Berkshire – the same laboured puns, the same good cop-bad cop judging duo. Add a rabble of home bakers and a hefty dose of cliched British nostalgia and you've got the formula for a hit TV show that, even in its fifth series, shows no sign of flagging.

It's the contestants that make the British Bake Off truly Great, and this year's bunch look likely to be the most popular yet. There were, of course, the same dogged attempts to baby us with shorthand – "the builder", "the family man" and, in a valiant attempt at sensationalism, "the youngest and oldest bakers ever!" – but the bakers were more than vibrant, likable and passionate enough to speak for themselves.

I'd been concerned that I'd be jealous of the new crop and mournful for my own time in the tent, but their enthusiasm was disarming and barely one challenge in, I found myself hooked.

At one end of the spectrum was wonderful Jordan, who gave leave of his sanity within the first 10 minutes and spent the rest of the episode vacillating between singing to himself and gabbling about losing his cherries, while Nancy – whose flawless bakes earned her Star Baker – sat primly at the other end, a vision of calm and composure, albeit with a steely glint in her eye. It was with the appearance of the retired merchant navy man Norman, however, with his lilting Scottish accent and homemade "skateboard" presentation platter (it must be seen to be believed) that an entire nation fell in love.

Much of the thrill for me, this time around, was being able to rejoice in the baking disasters that inevitably played out in that tent. The mundane melodramas were better than ever: the hipster Iain being tartly told off by a septuagenarian national treasure and a confession from contestant Chetna that she'd never actually made a swiss roll before. This is the banality that Bake Off has trademarked – it's a lot easier to stomach when it's not you who's crying over cake.

But behind the gentleness that's made the show so popular, there's a danger that the real dramas will, again, unfold off-screen. The contestants have been briefed not to engage in "negative exchanges" on Twitter but the bakers can't remain swaddled in bunting for ever, and it seems that the trolls have already begun sharpening their claws. Claire, whose crumbled chocolate and cherry cakes made her the first to leave the competition, has already been targeted – fat-shamed with insults of the lowest order, as offensive as they were stupid, crass and dull. She bravely hit back with a post on her blog about the abuse she endured, with the hashtag #iamnotdefinedbymyweight.

I also worry for Martha, only 17 but already a strong contender. Most impressive wasn't actually her baking (which was, as it happens, stunning) but her cheerful stoicism and solid confidence – in spite of her shaking hands. She already looks to have what it takes to win, but as the series rolls on over the coming weeks, I hope that she won't fall prey to those who would all too readily accuse her of flirting, sulking, batting her eyelids or simpering her way to the top. The furniture restorer Kate, who worked hard and performed well, has already been accused of being Paul's favourite. It seems her crime was not over-baking her red velvet swiss roll but simply being a woman on TV.

While we eagerly await next week's episode, we'll all be going through our own Bake Off rituals. Some will be attempting to recreate the dishes they saw on the show, others will still be nursing their bloated guts from this week's fiasco. But as Paul Hollywood tenderly coifs his quiff, and Mary Berry waits it out in cryogenic slumber, it's the bakers I'll be thinking of.

This time last year, I was a wreck. I hope that this year's lot will fare better as they navigate the minefield of social media, brace themselves for the next round and – I hope – prepare a few sharp retorts to anyone who dares to shame them for being too old, too fat, too thin, too confident, too naive, or too Jordan.

Sam Wollaston: Bake Off, with its turgid puns and carefully calibrated intake, is a tedious village fete turned into TV. Or it's like a cake, comforting and familiar, depending which side of the sofa you are on